Chapter 1 - The Girl on Her Phone
Claire stared at Kate’s message.
You okay?
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
She could have typed the truth.
No. The man who disappeared six years ago is upstairs with two bullets removed from his body, and I just spent two hours keeping him alive.
Instead, she wrote:
Long night. I’m fine. Keep Mia asleep if you can. I’ll be home when I’m able.
She hit send before she could change her mind.
“Dr. Callahan?”
Claire turned.
One of the ICU nurses stood behind her.
“He’s awake.”
Those three words tightened every muscle in Claire’s body.
“Is he stable?”
“Stable enough to be angry about the breathing tube.”
Despite herself, Claire almost smiled.
That sounded like Dante.
Then she hated herself for remembering.
“I’ll come up.”
The elevator ride to the ICU felt longer than the surgery.
Claire watched the numbers climb.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Her reflection in the metal doors looked exhausted. Her dark hair had escaped its knot. There was a faint bloodstain near her collar. Her eyes looked older than they had that morning.
Six years older.
When the doors opened, two men in black suits stood outside Dante’s room.
One was enormous, with a shaved head and a scar across his eyebrow.
The other was younger and leaner, dressed like someone attending a board meeting instead of guarding a wounded crime boss.
The younger man stepped forward.
“Dr. Callahan.”
Claire stopped.
“You know who I am?”
His expression revealed nothing.
“Mr. Moretti said your name.”
Something cold moved through her.
“When?”
“Before he passed out again.”
Claire looked toward the room.
“What exactly did he say?”
The man hesitated.
Then he answered.
“He said, ‘Don’t let Claire leave.’”
Her jaw tightened.
“Mr. Moretti doesn’t give orders in my hospital.”
For the first time, the younger man almost looked amused.
“I suspected you might say that.”
Claire pushed past him.
Dante lay beneath white sheets, his left shoulder heavily bandaged, oxygen tubing beneath his nose.
He looked less dangerous surrounded by medical equipment.
Less like the man newspapers feared.
More like the man she remembered.
That made it worse.
His eyes opened when she approached.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Dante whispered, “Claire.”
She picked up his chart.
“You’re lucky.”
His mouth barely moved.
“I never believed in luck.”
“Then thank the trauma team.”
“I’m thanking you.”
“I didn’t do it for you.”
His gaze stayed on her face.
“No?”
“I did my job.”
Dante studied her in silence.
Even weakened, there was something unsettling about the intensity of his attention.
“You became a doctor.”
Claire’s hand tightened around the chart.
“I already was a doctor.”
“You were finishing residency.”
“You remember.”
“I remember everything.”
“Apparently not everything.”
Pain flashed across his expression.
Physical or otherwise, she couldn’t tell.
“You hate me.”
Claire laughed softly.
It held no humor.
“You disappeared.”
“I know.”
“No call. No explanation. One note.”
His eyes closed.
“I know.”
“You don’t get to say that as if it makes it better.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“Good.”
Claire checked his IV.
His heart rate climbed.
She noticed.
Of course she noticed.
“Stop upsetting yourself.”
“You’re the one yelling at a man with a damaged lung.”
“I’m not yelling.”
“You always got quieter when you were furious.”
That sentence hit harder than she expected.
Because it was true.
Dante had known her.
Once.
Maybe better than anyone.
Claire stepped away.
“You need rest.”
“No.”
“You nearly died.”
“I’ve had worse nights.”
“You have two bullet wounds and a chest tube.”
“Still not my worst night.”
Claire turned toward the door.
“Claire.”
She stopped.
“I need to explain.”
“No.”
“You deserve to know.”
“I deserved to know six years ago.”
“Yes.”
The immediate answer surprised her.
No excuses.
No argument.
Just yes.
Claire faced him again.
Dante’s eyes looked different now.
Not hard.
Not powerful.
Tired.
“I thought leaving you was the only way to keep you alive.”
Claire felt fury rise again.
“You don’t get to turn abandonment into sacrifice.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“You were being watched.”
Claire froze.
Dante continued.
“Two weeks before I disappeared, someone photographed you leaving Harbor Ridge. Another photograph showed you grocery shopping. Another showed the front door of your apartment.”
Claire’s stomach tightened.
“I never saw any photographs.”
“I did.”
“Who sent them?”
“I didn’t know then.”
“And now?”
His jaw hardened.
“I have an idea.”
Claire looked toward the hallway.
“The men who shot you?”
“Possibly.”
“Why?”
“Because six years ago, somebody wanted me to understand that staying with you would get you killed.”
“So you left.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t ask me.”
“No.”
“You didn’t trust me.”
“It wasn’t about trust.”
“It was entirely about trust.”
Dante looked away.
Claire could see the answer hurt because he knew she was right.
Then he said something that made her anger flicker.
“I watched you for a while.”
Her blood went cold.
“What?”
“Not personally.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“I had people make sure you were alive.”
Claire stared at him.
“For how long?”
“Eight months.”
Eight months.
Mia had been three months old by then.
Claire’s heartbeat changed.
“Did they see me?”
“From a distance.”
“Did they see anyone with me?”
Dante frowned.
“What are you asking?”
Claire immediately regretted the question.
“Nothing.”
But Dante had never been stupid.
His gaze sharpened.
“Claire.”
She stepped toward the door.
“Rest.”
“Who was with you?”
“No one.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“You’re sedated.”
“I’m awake enough.”
“Barely.”
Dante watched her.
Then his eyes dropped.
To her phone.
Claire had placed it on the counter beside the chart.
The screen suddenly illuminated.
A new message from Kate.
And beneath the notification was Claire’s lock-screen photograph.
Mia.
Six years old.
Sitting on a white fence at a summer fair, missing one front tooth, dark curls blowing across her face.
Dante stopped breathing.
Not literally.
But almost.
His eyes locked on the photograph.
Claire moved quickly and grabbed the phone.
Too late.
“Who is that?”
Her throat closed.
“No one you need to worry about.”
Dante’s monitor began to accelerate.
“Claire.”
“Calm down.”
“How old is she?”
Claire said nothing.
His face changed.
Six years of distance disappeared from his expression as pieces began assembling behind his eyes.
“How old?”
The monitor climbed.
“Dante—”
“Six?”
Claire looked at him.
He knew.
Maybe not completely.
But enough.
Dante tried to push himself higher.
Pain ripped through him immediately.
He gasped.
“Stop moving.”
Claire reached for him.
He caught her wrist.
Weakly.
But desperately.
“Is she mine?”
Claire stared at the hand around her wrist.
The same hand that once rested over her stomach before either of them knew there had been a child there.
She could lie.
She had spent six years believing she would never have to answer this question.
She had imagined Dante dead.
Then imagined him happy somewhere else.
Then imagined confronting him.
In every version, Claire had screamed.
Instead, standing beside his ICU bed, her voice came out almost gentle.
“Her name is Mia.”
Dante went completely still.
Claire swallowed.
“She turned six in March.”
His fingers slipped from her wrist.
The heart monitor began sounding faster.
“Claire…”
“She loves horses, even though she’s only ridden one twice. She hates peas. She sings when she thinks nobody is listening. She has your eyes.”
Dante’s face lost all color.
“She’s…”
His voice broke.
Claire had never heard Dante Moretti’s voice break.
Not once.
“She’s your daughter.”
The monitor alarm screamed.
A nurse rushed into the room.
“Heart rate one-forty-eight!”
Dante stared at Claire as though the bullets had done less damage than those three words.
“My daughter?”
Claire stepped backward.
“Yes.”
Six years of rage pressed behind her eyes.
“You didn’t just leave me, Dante.”
His expression collapsed.
May you like
“You left both of us.”
And for the first time since Claire had known him, the man half of Seattle was afraid of looked completely terrified.
